Heavyweight
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Heavy TrafficChapter 20 free porn video
The fog that preceded full consciousness was filled with pain. The pain didn’t subside as DeMarcus’ wakefulness increased; it only became more intense and widespread.
The brightness on the other side of his eyelids implied light, but DeMarcus was hesitant to subject his eye to it just yet. The voice suddenly speaking convinced him to open his eyes.
“We have eye movement. Tell the doctor that the patient may be regaining consciousness.”
DeMarcus opened one eye to see the back of a person leaving the room before this was blocked by another person stepping in between him and the view he had. Fingers were placed on his eyelids to hold his eye open as a penlight was shone into first one, and then the other.
Finally, the person spoke, “Good afternoon, it’s good to have you back with us. Do you remember your name?”
DeMarcus tried to speak, but his mouth and throat were so dry that he couldn’t form words.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Here, let me wet your whistle some. That should make you feel better.”
DeMarcus saw that the person was a female nurse; a sister, in her forties from what he could see of her. She left the room and returned with a cup in her hand and what looked like a doctor in her wake.
Extracting a stick from the cup with some sort of foam sponge on the end, the nurse preceded to use it to moisten DeMarcus’ lips, tongue and inside of his mouth. She returned it to the cup of water several times to reapply more moisture until she saw saliva being formed on its own.
As soon as she had extracted the sponge, DeMarcus tried to speak again. He looked to the doctor, who stood behind the nurse reviewing a chart of some sort.
“Where da fuck am I?”
The nurse stepped back to allow the doctor access to the patient. As he stepped up to the bed to examine DeMarcus he said, “You are at Grady Medical Center. You have been unconscious since you arrived a little over two weeks ago. Can you tell us your name?”
“My name is DeMarcus Steele. How da fuck did I end up in dis hos spit toll?”
“We were hoping you could tell us, Mr. Steele. You apparently experienced a serious industrial accident of some sort. Whoever provided the initial medical treatment definitely saved your life. Do you remember the accident?”
“What accident? What chew talkin bout? All I know is I wakes up here, hurtin like a fucker and can’t move my arms or legs. You gots me tied down or sumtin?”
“Mr. Steel, if you don’t remember the accident, then I have the sad duty of informing you that you lost both arms, both legs, and your genitalia somehow. As I mentioned, you had received emergency medical care of the highest quality before you were brought here by two men who claimed to have found you in this condition. You were unconscious upon your arrival, due apparently to the concussion you suffered during the accident, which also explains why you may not remember it.”
“You shittin me,” said DeMarcus, but as he started focusing on the areas of pain all over his body, he became frightened that the reality of his situation might just be as this doctor described it.
His head hurt worse than he had ever experienced. The pain in his shoulders didn’t extend down any further, and as he turned his head to look at each shoulder, he gasped when he saw nothing attached to either, not even the barest stump of an arm existed beneath the bandages.
The position in which he was laying prevented him from seeing farther than his stomach area, so he asked to be raised. The nurse walked around to the other side of the bed and used the controls to raise the head of the bed several inches.
His lower body was covered in a sheet. “Can you pull da sheet down?” he asked.
The nurse glanced at the doctor who nodded. She then carefully began folding the sheet down the bed until what remained of DeMarcus Steel’s body was fully exposed to him. As his glance moved down his body, he saw only a clear tube with what looked like piss in it extending from the bandages between where his legs used to be. The hose ran to a plastic bag attached to the side of the bed. As with his arms, there was no trace of even a portion of his legs remaining, almost as if they had been severed at the hip itself.
“Dat bitch!” screamed DeMarcus.
The nurse and doctor stumbled back at the sound of rage from the patient, even though they both knew that they had nothing to fear from this man. No one would ever fear this man again.
The nurses drew straws to see who got the unenviable task of dealing with DeMarcus Steele every time he required attention of any sort.
Meals were the worst because his mouth still worked, and he frequently used it to spit some or all of his food at the nurse trying to feed him. Even when bathing him, the nurses learned to avoid getting too close to his mouth, because this patient was a real ‘biter’ if given the opportunity.
There was a unanimous agreement that the nurses liked this patient much better when he was unconscious, and they jokingly asked the doctors to put him into a medically induced coma every chance they had.
DeMarcus Steele had been awake two days before he received his first visitor.
Spenser Brown walked into the room just as “Good Morning America” was signing off for the day, pulling a chair behind him. He had obviously been informed that there were no chairs in the room for visitors, so had come prepared.
“Bout time some un come visit me,” DeMarcus said to his lawyer.
Brown pushed a button on the remote control to mute the television.
“No one is allowed to visit you, DeMarcus. Didn’t they tell you that you are under police protection? I wouldn’t be here myself if a Federal judge hadn’t appointed me your attorney of record. You know I don’t take pro bono cases.”
“What da fuck you talkin bout, ‘Pro Bono’? I pays you damn good to represent me when I needs you.”
“Any retainer you paid was used up trying to fight the seizure of your assets by the Feds. When those actions failed, you became legally and officially indigent. If I hadn’t been forced to take you on by the Federal judge, you would be meeting with a Public Defender right now.”
“Maybe you better splain things,” said DeMarcus. “Start wif dis seizure bullshit.”
Brown pulled out a folder and reviewed it before speaking, “You were delivered here to the hospital by Herman ‘Splint’ Caster and Quincy ‘Q-Tip’ White in a car driven by Jefferson ‘Blaze’ Ashe. Immediately after depositing your body in the entrance to the emergency room, these three men drove to the Federal Building in downtown Atlanta and sought a meeting with the U.S. Attorney. They were requesting immunity from prosecution for testimony against you related to an organized crime organization that they allege you head, including proof that you personally ordered the rape, torture and murder of a Federal law enforcement officer.”
DeMarcus growled deep in his throat, but no intelligible words were emitted, so Spenser Brown continued, “Two days later the U.S. Attorney had convened a Federal Grand Jury, seeking indictments against you under the Racketeer Influence Criminal Organization Act, or ‘RICO’ Act as it is more commonly known, and a first-degree murder indictment for the death of Special Agent Michelle Anderson. A federal judge had already issued a search warrant for your home where evidence was collected for presentation to the Grand Jury. The indictments were returned in less than three hours. The Feds then immediately began seizing all your property and assets as having been derived from the criminal activity. I tried to get stays to these proceedings, but with the Grand Jury indictments already in place, there was little I could do.”
Before DeMarcus could respond, two more men and a woman entered his room. The men were in suits, and the woman wore a business-style dress that made her look more male than female.
The men took positions on either side of his bed while the woman stood at the foot. All of them nodded to Spenser Brown, and then stared at DeMarcus as if waiting for him to introduce them to each other.
“I assume you’re all here for some reason,” DeMarcus said.
The man closest to the window spoke first, “DeMarcus Steele?”
“What’s left of him,” DeMarcus answered.
The woman spoke next, “Mr. Steele, I am Detective Romo with the Atlanta Police Department Crimes Against Persons Division.” She held up her badge and identification for him to view. “Have you been able to remember what caused the injuries that brought you here?”
“The last thing I remember is starting down to the basement of my house...”
“Were you alone at the time?” the Detective asked?
DeMarcus knew better than to reveal who had been with him and the circumstances at the time. He glanced towards his attorney before answering, “Some of my associates were in the house.”
Checking her notes, Detective Romo read, “Would that be a Mr. Jefferson Ashe, a Mr. Quincy White and a Mr. Herman Caster?”
DeMarcus nodded, “Blaze, Q-Tip and Splint.”
“Those three men disavow any knowledge of how you received your injuries and claim to have found you in your current condition.”
“Let me talk to dem. I think dale member diffint.”
The man closest to the window spoke again, “You may not speak to these men. They are Federal witnesses in the criminal indictments I have prepared against you, Mr. Steele. My name is Scott LaBlanc, Assistant United States Attorney. Has your attorney explained your rights to you, Mr. Steele?”
DeMarcus looked at the man with a combination of confusion and contempt. Scott LaBlanc might still have a thirty-three-inch waist, but it was placed below at least a fifty-inch stomach. Compared to the other man, who remained silent on the opposite side of the room, LaBlanc was a sad physical representation of a man.
“Why you chargin me wif anything? I’m da victum here.”
“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Steele?”
“Yes I fukin unnerstan em,” screamed Steele. “Whys you hassling me?”
“So, you do remember what happened?” Detective Romo asked.
“I don’t need to member nuttin but me layin here wif no fuckin arms an legs to knows I was da victim. You think I did dis to myself?”
LaBlanc interrupted before Romo could respond, “DeMarcus Lamont Steele, you are charged with the kidnapping, rape and murder of a Federal officer. Do you recognize these items?”
LaBlanc held up two clear plastic evidence bags for DeMarcus to examine. One held an automatic pistol. The other held a badge wallet. He recognized both but didn’t need the advice of his lawyer to know that he should say nothing.
“After you were dropped here by your associates, they came directly to my office to confess a whole range of sins and legal transgressions by you in exchange for clemency. All three were interviewed separately, and all three named you as the person who instigated the actions against Agent Michelle Anderson which led to her death. The testimony of these three men was sufficient for me to obtain Federal Grand Jury indictments against you and a search warrant for your house. These items were discovered during this search, so I’ll ask you again; Do you recognize these items?”
DeMarcus glanced towards Brown before answering, “No.”
“Do you have an explanation for your fingerprints being on both items found in your office at your house Mr. Steele?”
Once more, a glance towards his lawyer before answering, “No.”
“Do you know why trace amounts of blood, identified through DNA tests as belonging to Special Agent Anderson were found in the basement of your home?”
“No.”
“Do you know the current whereabouts of one Tom Folsom?” asked Detective Romo?
“No.”
“The Bibb County Sheriff’s office will want to discuss his location with you once their divers pull his remains from the location your associates provided for where you disposed of him at Lake Tobeskofkee, The bullet that allegedly killed him has already been recovered from a house in Bibb County, and a ballistic test confirms it was fired from Agent Anderson’s service weapon, which was found in your house with your prints on it.”
LaBlanc took over again, “I wouldn’t worry yourself, or what’s left of yourself about a state murder charge. “I’m going to make certain that your helpless body spends the rest of its worthless life in a maximum-security prison. The President has taken a special interest in your case, even demanding that the Attorney General request a specific Federal judge to preside over your case.”
“And I’m going to make sure you spend your time face down so your ass is exposed to every other scumbag in there with you.” These words were spoken by the other man across the room.
“Folks, I must object to this harassment of my client,” interjected Spenser Brown.
DeMarcus turned to face the man who had spoken for the first time. “Who da fuck are you?”
“I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. My name is Kirby. Kirby Wallace. I believe you have met my nephew.”
“Don’t you got nuttin I can put in my mouth or sumtin to at lease allow me to push da buttins on da remote?” DeMarcus asked one of the nurses. “You bitches always putting on some soap ahprah shit den turnin da volume up so loud I can’t even sleep thru da borin shit.”
It had been one month and six days since DeMarcus had regained consciousness in the hospital. Once the doctors were sure that there were no infections, he had surgery performed to suture the skin over the wounds in his shoulders and hips.
DeMarcus didn’t consider it surgery since they had refused to give him any anesthesia and he had to endure every puncture of the needles wide awake. That had been minor torture compared to how the nurses continued to treat him.
The nurse surfed through the available channels until she found a French cooking show, then turned the volume up and set the remote back on the table next to the bed.
“Unless the court authorizes physical therapy for you, we cannot provide any assistive devices or aids for your physical limitations. Sorry, Mr. Steele, but if it’s any consolation, your wounds have healed to the point where I believe the doctors will be issuing your discharge papers within a day or two.”
“Where da fuck dey gonna discharge me to?” screamed DeMarcus.
The nurse finished tending to his urine bag and other necessities as she calmly responded, “To the prison hospital at the U.S. Penitentiary Atlanta, I imagine. You were convicted last week after all.”
DeMarcus remembered all too well. He hadn’t been allowed to be in the courtroom, but had been presented to the court and the jurors through a video feed that showed only his head and face. The prosecuting attorney had argued, and the fucking judge had agreed that showing his dismembered body to the jurors would be prejudicial.
DeMarcus had been muted in the courtroom, so no one got to hear his shouts of outrage as Splint, Blaze and Q-Tip testified about his operation and what he had done himself to that Anderson bitch in an attempt to get her to reveal the whereabouts of twenty-five young girls that he had arranged to have brought to this country illegally.
The images of the courtroom that were shown to DeMarcus didn’t allow him to see all the people present, but he did get to see enough to know that Amanda Wallace didn’t appear to be present.
After DeMarcus had explained to Spenser Brown about having Amanda Wallace in his house the night he was injured, they had discussed why her abduction and the trafficking of the girls weren’t included in the charges against him. He thought that she would at least show up in the courtroom, maybe even with that pussy Sean Wallace but he never saw her.
The only visitor that DeMarcus had seen since he was advised of the indictment against him had been Spenser Brown. The lawyer and client were both amazed at how fast the case against him was brought to trial, and while Brown had tried every strategy he knew of, the Federal judge assigned to the case rejected all arguments for a postponement of the trial. Brown would challenge the haste of the proceedings in his appeals of the conviction, but he was not keen on presenting his own inability to prepare a timely defense as justification for a reversal of the conviction. The prosecutor had been diligent in making certain that all evidence and transcripts of depositions were provided as soon as they were processed, so Brown had no one to blame but himself for not having the time required to prepare for trial.
Not that it would have made much difference. Splint, Q-Tip and Blaze had been irrefutable in their testimony, and the facts that they each relayed were substantiated not only with physical evidence but also by the testimony of each other.
DeMarcus kept trying to get Brown to arrange a deposition with any or all of these men that he could participate in, but his physical limitations and recovery prevented his transportation out of the hospital, and the judge refused to order that the Federally protected witnesses be placed at risk by requiring their depositions be taken anywhere other than at the Federal courthouse, under protection of U.S. Marshals.
Spenser Brown could not provide DeMarcus with the reasons why three of his most trusted associates were turning against him so severely. Questions related to the motivation for their confessions were objected to by the prosecutor and upheld by the judge. DeMarcus believed that the three men were being coerced, threatened, or influenced by something, or more likely someone, and he strongly suspected that it involved Amanda Wallace in some way.
Try as he might, DeMarcus could not remember what had happened to him after he had entered the doorway to his basement, which was another reason that he wanted to speak to Splint, Blaze and Q-Tip. DeMarcus really wanted to know who Amanda Wallace had help her and how whoever it was had known where to find her.
He didn’t delude himself into believing he would be able to do anything about it now. He was nothing but a brain and the necessary internal organs to keep it alive, but that brain could still think, scheme, and hate.
DeMarcus was awakened by the sound of his television being turned off. He had eventually learned to sleep with the thing on, but his sleep patterns were erratic.
If the nurses thought they were taunting him by leaving the crappiest shows they could find playing twenty-four hours a day, then they hadn’t yet grasped how fitful his sleep was due to the dreams.
The beast in his dreams was real; DeMarcus had no doubt of that. However, it never had a face and moved like smoke in a strong wind; shapeless, silent, strong and swift. As his senses returned from his latest version of the dream, he realized that he was not alone in the room.
With the television off, the only light was through the small viewing window in the doorway. The hallway was bright with light, and DeMarcus took comfort from seeing one of the policemen who had been guarding his room since he had arrived. He usually resented the cops being there, but right now, he welcomed them.
A man stood on the opposite side of the room, in front of the shade darkened window. DeMarcus couldn’t make out his features, yet he knew that the man was studying him closely.
“Who da fuck are you?” DeMarcus demanded, but there was no answer.
“How’d you get pass da cops?” Still no answer.
“Listen cocksucker, either you tell who you are an whatchu wan, or I’ll call the cops to come slam yo ass.”
“Mr. Steele, my wife will be joining us in a few minutes, and if I hear one word out of your mouth in her presence that doesn’t reflect gentlemanly respect for a lady, then your tongue will join the rest of your appendages in the sewers of Atlanta. Do we understand each other?”
The voice was calm, and while not exactly cold, it held firmness that DeMarcus had never heard another man use in speaking to him. Bravado failed DeMarcus Steele. Adrenalin fueled fear could manifest itself only in his voice, “If you come near me, I’ll call the poleese outside.”
“They won’t come,” the man replied in the same calm, even tone. “They work for me. I have paid off-duty police officers to guard your room since you arrived here. I have also been paying for your room and medical care, which will cease tomorrow when you receive your medical release. Then my taxes will be paying to keep you alive in prison.”
DeMarcus had to call this dude’s bluff, “Help! Police! Help me!” he screamed as loudly as he could. He could see one of the policemen step up to the doorway window and glance inside, then laugh and turn away. He was about to yell again when another shape appeared at the doorway window, opened the door and entered.
As the overhead lights came on, DeMarcus blinked at the sudden brightness, but more so at the person who had turned them on.
A smiling Amanda Wallace closed the door and walked towards the man near the window, addressing DeMarcus as she passed the foot of his bed.
“DeMarcus, why all the fuss? I was just checking with your nurses on your condition before visiting with you.”
Reaching the strange man, she kissed him and said, “You two get introduced yet?”
“Not formally,” Sean said. “The last time we met, Mr. Steele was in no condition for formal introductions.”
“Well then, allow me. Sean, I would like to introduce my friend DeMarcus Steele. DeMarcus, I would like to introduce my husband, Sean Wallace.”
“You,” whispered DeMarcus. “It was you dat did dis to me wassint it?”
“No,” replied Sean, “I did not do this to you.”
“He didn’t, DeMarcus,” Amanda said. “Sean wanted to kill you and make it look like an accident. He’s very good at that you know. However, I told Sean that I considered you entertaining, and your associates needed an incentive to change their own wicked ways, so Sean agreed to spare your life.”
Seeing the confused expression on the face of DeMarcus Steele, Amanda took Sean by the hand and led him to the foot of the bed to stand beside her.
Alessandra
- 12.02.2022
- 19
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